


Art More Lovely

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Nothing in the World [10]
Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blindfolds, Established Relationship, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-25 23:47:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14988173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Shizuo’s laugh seems louder in Izaya’s ears for the darkness of the blindfold tied around his head." Izaya gives up his vision and gets a great deal in return.





	Art More Lovely

“There.” Shizuo’s hands drop away from the back of Izaya’s head to press gentle weight against the line of the other’s shoulders instead. “Can you see anything?”

Izaya tips his head to track the sound of Shizuo’s voice behind him. “Senpai?” he asks, letting his voice quaver over unnecessary fear as he lifts a hand to fumble into the space behind him. “Is that you, senpai? I can’t tell, everything’s gone dark.”

The weight at his shoulder vanishes to be replaced by a hand catching around his outstretched fingers. “Brat,” Shizuo says. “You’re the one who wanted to try this. Are you really going to be theatrical about it?”

“Of course I am,” Izaya responds in closer to his usual voice. “Only think how worried you would be if I weren’t putting on a show for you, you’d stop us right away.” He lifts his hand away from Shizuo’s hold and waves it in the space more or less in front of his face. “I can’t see a thing, I promise.”

Shizuo’s laugh seems louder in Izaya’s ears for the darkness of the blindfold tied around his head; Izaya can feel it like friction down the whole of his spine, can feel the pressure of it ache pleasant tension in the depths of his stomach. “Good.” The hand still lingering at his shoulder slides away to come up and skim against the weight of his hair instead, where the dark locks are catching against the band of fabric knotted between them. “Tell me if you want me to take it off.”

“I am capable of untying a knot on my own,” Izaya says. “Even without being able to see, I think I can manage that much.” He tips his head to the side and raises his eyebrows, even though he’s not entirely sure he’s actually facing Shizuo properly. “Unless you’ve decided you want to tie me up after all?”

Shizuo snorts. “Let’s try one thing at a time,” he suggests. “First let’s find out if you like this as much as you think you will.”

Izaya rocks back over his knees at the end of the bed. “What are you waiting for, then?” he says, and lifts his arms from his sides to make an offering of himself. “Let’s test the theory.” Shizuo hums a laugh again, this one lower and purring at the back of his throat, and Izaya is grinning in answer even before the touch of the other’s hands comes back in to curl around the hem of his shirt and urge the fabric up off the span of his chest.

Izaya is happy to submit to Shizuo’s touch. These ideas are usually his suggestions, collected from the internet or probably-apocryphal stories or just invented from the wealth of imagination he is occasionally forced to fall back on, on those rare occasions he is left to his own devices for a particularly long night or overheated afternoon, but Shizuo has never offered any but complete investment in whatever it is Izaya suggests to him. Izaya thinks sometimes that Shizuo would follow him into any experimentation at all just for the possibility of it against his lips, would pour his desire to fit whatever mold Izaya’s whims offered; the idea of that as much as the present forced darkness around him is enough to quicken his breathing and warm his skin as rapidly as Shizuo’s touch tugs his shirt up and over his shoulders and off his head. Izaya lifts his arms to ease the motion, arching his back to curve into the action as Shizuo slides his shirt free with care over the blindfold knotted into his hair, and then his shirt is free and he’s left kneeling where he was, with just the cool of the air whispering against bare skin to speak to his state of present undress.

Shizuo shifts against the mattress; there’s a rustle of fabric and a creak of the springs as the bed moves with his action. It’s a minimal motion, something Izaya doesn’t think he would notice at all if his eyes were open; in the dark he can feel the shift like a wave as his senses reach to reorient him based on sound and gravity alone. Shizuo’s touch at his hip is startling for the lack of warning that comes with it; Izaya’s breath catches at the contact, his shoulders flexing with the shiver of adrenaline that follows the friction of those fingers suddenly against him.

“Beautiful,” Shizuo sighs. His voice is warm at his lips, as if he’s savoring the sound of it; his hand slides up the line of Izaya’s waist towards the rhythm of his breathing. “You’re so beautiful, Izaya.”

“So you’ve said,” Izaya informs him, with as much boredom on his voice as he can put there. The words are familiar, that much is true; the fact that his skin is prickling with self-conscious heat at the weight of Shizuo’s hand moving unseen up his body is beside the point, even if he’s sure the other can see the shift of his breathing coming faster in his chest. “Is that really the best you have to offer?” He lifts his hands from his sides again to spread out into the air around him, gesturing himself into an invitation on the assumption that Shizuo’s gaze is tracking the action. “I wanted you to blindfold me so you might actually manage to surprise me, you know.”

“Mm,” Shizuo hums. Izaya has never noticed before how low Shizuo’s voice is, how it rumbles deep down against the inside of his chest; he wonders if it has always had this weight to it, or if it’s the effect of years of shouting and smoke that he’s hearing now, that is quivering down his spine and starting to ache distantly against his cock inside his jeans. “You want a surprise?”

“Of course,” Izaya says with the haughtiest tone he can muster for himself. “If you’re just going to shower me in compli--” and his words cut off at once, crushed right out of existence along with his breath as a force presses against his lips to stifle the spill of air from his lungs. It takes him a moment just to recognize the warm wet of Shizuo’s mouth against his; with his vision absent the rest of his senses are struggling to keep up, whirling dizzy one atop the other until all he can form of the friction is pressure and heat and proximity. It’s only as Shizuo is drawing back that Izaya finds the space to gasp a breath and struggle for something like coherency again.

“Well enough,” he says, trying for condescension and just sounding breathless. “I suppose for--” and there’s a rumble of sound, noise and vibration at once spilling over Izaya’s skin, and when Shizuo comes in again it’s with force enough to knock Izaya backwards and away from his careful structure of balance. Izaya’s stomach drops, instinctive panic surging in him at the sudden feel of falling as he reaches out to clutch for a handhold, to strive for a grip that just gives way, that leaves him dropping through the thin air around him to -- land hard enough against the bed behind him that all the air left to his shout-emptied lungs is knocked out of him in a huff.

“There,” Shizuo says, somewhere over and in front of Izaya’s reaching hands. “That’s better.” And he’s back, his mouth catching to pin Izaya’s to stillness beneath his lips before Izaya has yet done more than run his fingers up against Shizuo’s shirtfront and clutch at the fabric. Izaya groans in the back of his throat, the sound urged out of him by the heat against his mouth, but Shizuo’s hand is curling against the back of his head, and there are strong fingers spreading wide over the pounding of his heart in his chest to hold him down to the bed, and with his vision gone Izaya feels himself lost in even this familiar space. Everything seems more intense, from the weight of Shizuo’s breathing against his cheek to the taste of Shizuo’s tongue in his mouth, until it’s only as the heat drags back and away again that Izaya realizes he’s failed to close his fingers to fists at Shizuo’s shirt, that he has in fact failed to do anything more than whimper and surrender to the force of Shizuo’s mouth against his.

“You were right,” Shizuo’s voice says, sounding farther away than Izaya wants him but still close enough for his words to carry a physical force through the whole of Izaya’s body. The hand at Izaya’s hair draws away, the fingers at his chest slide down to trail across the flat of his stomach; Izaya shudders and grabs for Shizuo’s wrist, his fingers sliding over the line of muscle in the other’s arm as he tries to find a handhold against Shizuo’s skin. “This _was_ a good idea.”

Izaya presses his lips together and swallows as hard as he can manage without outright whimpering over the sound. “I’m glad you came around,” he manages. “You do like having me vulnerable to your whims after all, don’t you?” He lets go of his hold on Shizuo’s wrist -- it’s not like his grip was serving any purpose anyway, Shizuo’s strength doesn’t even notice the full application of his own -- and lifts his hands up instead to let his arms fall slack over his head. It’s strange to picture himself while his own eyes are covered -- it feels indulgent, to think of Shizuo’s gaze on him while his vision has been claimed by the band of fabric tied around his head -- but Izaya tips his head to the side anyway, making a show of the line of his neck for the gaze he’s sure is on him without having to see it. “Maybe you want to try a little bondage tonight after all?”

Shizuo huffs a breath that breaks on the very edges of amusement in his throat. “No,” he says, with certainty enough on the word that the tension of Izaya’s adopted seduction gives way as if cut through with a knife. Izaya frowns, letting his angled-over hands loosen as he tips his head up towards the sound of Shizuo’s voice, and then: “I want to be able to move you where I want you” and there’s a pull against the front of his pants, the force of a hand dragging hard at the front of the clothing to draw Izaya bodily across the bed. Izaya yelps surprise as his fingers catch involuntary pressure against the sheets under him, but Shizuo is pulling him forward in spite of that, rumpling the sheets as well as Izaya’s composure as he draws the other closer. Izaya tips his chin down, habit trying to give him a glimpse of what’s happening even though he will achieve nothing with the darkness over his eyes, and then there’s pressure against the underside of his thigh, the weight of a hand spreading beneath him to hold his hips up off the bed while the grip at the front of his pants loosens to pull at his fly instead.

“I _do_ like you like this,” Shizuo growls, his voice so low it resonates through the rhythm of Izaya’s heartbeat, pours itself over the whole length of the other’s spine, and Izaya’s head goes back in spite of himself, instinct arcing him against the bed beneath him to make a show of his throat, to make a surrender of his body. His jeans fall open, button and zipper coming undone to the urging of that hand against him, and the hand at his thigh slides up to palm at his ass before fingers curl into the waistband of his pants to match the grip settling into place just over his hip. “You’re a lot more off-balance when you can’t see.”

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya starts, letting one of his hands go from the fist he’s made at the sheets to fumble for Shizuo’s wrist, and Shizuo pulls to strip his clothing down and off him instead of hesitating. Izaya’s fingers drag across Shizuo’s shirt instead of finding his arm, seeking a moment of contact before Shizuo is pulling back and away, and then Izaya’s jeans are sliding off him and he’s left stripped naked and adrift somewhere in the middle of a bed made unfamiliar by his lack of vision. He reaches out, stretching his fingers over the endless distance surrounding him, but there’s nothing against his touch, no flushed-warm skin or loose fabric or soft hair answering the unvoiced plea of his fingers. “Shizuo?”

“Izaya,” Shizuo says, his voice farther away than Izaya expected but still just as resonant with weight as before. There’s a touch at Izaya’s ankle, the force of a hand catching to press his knee down to the bed, and then a hand against his shoulder and weight enough to lock him where he lies. Izaya’s fingers find fabric and curl into fists before he can make sense of what part of Shizuo’s clothes he’s laid hand to, but if Shizuo notices the desperate strain of the other’s hold he doesn’t say anything about it. Izaya can hear the gust of an exhale over him, the sound low and satisfied on heat, and the hand at his shoulder slides up to curl against the side of his neck instead. “You look so good like this.”

“At least one of us is appreciating the view,” Izaya says, attempting something akin to sarcasm on his tone, but it falls far short of the goal and Shizuo just hums a laugh in the back of his throat.

“I am indeed,” he says. The fingers at Izaya’s neck press up, Shizuo’s palm cradling against the edge of his jaw before urging up to stroke through the weight of his hair, and Izaya tips into the force of the other’s touch, his mouth coming open on a groan of heat at the feel of Shizuo’s fingers urging his head to the side as much as they rumple through his hair. Shizuo’s thumb smoothes behind the curve of his ear, Shizuo’s fingers catch at the line of the blindfold; and then the other’s motion halts, stalled to stillness for a moment as his touch lingers over the knot pressing to the back of Izaya’s head.

“Izaya,” Shizuo says, and what resonance there still is on his voice is softer, now, incidental instead of assumed. His fingers curl in against the knot like he’s feeling the shape of it, like he’s thinking of stripping it loose all at once. “I’ll take it off if you want me to.” His palm cups the back of Izaya’s head, his fingers tighten to cradle the weight of it; Izaya doesn’t need to see the expression on Shizuo’s face to know how soft his mouth must be, to sense how gentle his gaze has gone. “Just say the word, okay?”

Izaya takes a moment to respond; not because there’s any doubt in his mind as to his answer, but just to relish the warmth of the hesitation, to imagine the heat of the gaze fixed on him, awaiting his word even while his vision remains tied back by the blindfold looped around his head. Finally he shakes his head, pressing against the weight of Shizuo’s touch as he offers the gesture in answer.

“I’m having fun,” he says, grinning to give the words sincerity even though he can’t see if Shizuo is watching him or not. He lets one hand go from Shizuo’s shirtfront to fumble his way into a touch against the side of the other’s face so he can ghost his fingers across the set of whatever expression Shizuo is turning on him and read the details of emotion under the play of his fingertips. “I like not being able to see what you’re doing to me.” He tips his head back and up, just slightly, and imagines Shizuo’s gaze dipping down to follow the line of his neck instead. “It’s exciting to feel helpless like this.”

“Mm,” Shizuo growls. Izaya can feel him leaning in, the motion carried to his understanding by the shift of his hand against Shizuo’s cheek as much as by the approach of the sound. “Is it now.” Izaya lifts his chin to meet Shizuo leaning in towards him, his lips already parting on anticipation; and then Shizuo’s bracing hold at his knee slides in and under, and pulls hard, and Izaya is toppling sideways to fall face-first over the bed instead of being urged into the overwhelming heat of Shizuo’s mouth against his. He loses his breath in a gust of air that has as much delight as shock on it; he’s still smiling down against the soft of the sheets under his hands when there’s a gust of warmth against the back of his ear and a purr of sound spilling against the fall of his hair against his neck. “Something like this?” Izaya whimpers as the most efficient means of giving a comprehensive answer, and Shizuo laughs against him and presses a kiss against his shoulder before pulling back and away. Izaya can feel him moving against the mattress, as the give underneath him carries some measure of the other’s motion to his own senses, but he’s still breathless from his sudden inversion, and with his cock straining against the minor friction of the sheets underneath him and his hands reaching for traction against the bed he can’t spare attention enough to determine the intricacies of Shizuo’s movement from the shift of his weight.

“Stay right there,” Shizuo says. Izaya wonders distantly if he knows how casually dominant he sounds on the words, if the certainty of obedience on his tongue is deliberate or instinctive. It doesn’t make a difference, really; Izaya doesn’t have any intention of going anywhere else, so long as he still has Shizuo’s touch sliding down the back of his thigh with the slow grace of lingering appreciation. He stays still, staring wide-eyed into the darkness that so effectively cuts off his vision as he listens to Shizuo shifting against the bed, as the touch at his leg slides from thigh to knee to ankle, and then away entirely, as Shizuo gets to his feet and steps away from the mattress where Izaya is sprawled.

Izaya doesn’t try to get up. Some part of him wants to: he feels lost, with his vision absent and his other senses still struggling to make up for the loss. Without Shizuo’s touch on him there’s nothing to ground him at all, nothing to center him from the hazy whirl of his thoughts flickering like stars in the darkness of his covered eyes; but there’s a pleasure to that too, to feeling so undone just by the removal of this single aspect of his experience of the world. He can still hear Shizuo moving, if he listens for it: there’s the sound of footsteps, the rustle of movement, the drag of a drawer coming open, Izaya thinks. It’s all telltale enough that Izaya thinks he could guess at the structure of what Shizuo intends even if he hadn’t known well before the loop of fabric fell over his vision, but he can’t pick apart the details, his attention is too fractured for that. He wonders if Shizuo has stripped his vest off yet, if he’s shed his slacks to pad across the bedroom in just his boxers; maybe he’s still entirely clothed, or maybe he’s laid himself as bare as Izaya is, secure in the knowledge that there’s no audience to see him. The thought prickles self-consciousness across Izaya’s shoulders with the reminder that he _does_ have one, that Shizuo could be watching him right now, could be standing alongside the bed and staring unabashed appreciation at the line of his thighs, the curve of his ass, the dip of his spine and the strain of his shoulders. Izaya’s skin flushes, hot as if he can feel the weight of Shizuo’s attention on him, as if the possibility alone is enough to offer as much force as the reality without any means to confirm it, and he turns his head down against the pillows to gasp a breath as his hips arc forward to grind the helpless heat of his erection down against the tangle of the sheets beneath him.

“Shizuo,” Izaya manages, aware that he sounds petulant and desperate and not caring enough to stifle the tone in his throat. It’s different, when he can’t see the look on Shizuo’s face, when he can’t see the attention in the other’s eyes; he feels unraveled, as if he’s lost control over his own expression with his inability to watch Shizuo’s. He tips his head against the pillows and uncurls his fingers from the sheets so he can feel his way out to the edge of the bed, can reach out into open air towards the last place he heard Shizuo’s presence. “Senpai, where are you?”

Fingers catch his own, a hold closes around his wrist to stall the reach of his fingers. “I’m here,” Shizuo says, the words carrying weight enough to ease the strain over Izaya’s shoulders even before Shizuo pushes the other’s hand back to its first location and lets his hold go so he can touch at Izaya’s knee instead. “Slide your legs wider.” Izaya obeys at once, drawing his knees open on the sheets as he braces his elbows against the bed under him to hold himself steady, and the mattress moves beneath him as Shizuo climbs back onto the end of it. Izaya’s balance shifts, his leg slides before catching itself under his weight, and there’s a touch high against the inside of his leg as Shizuo reaches to brace the open span of his palm at Izaya’s thigh. Izaya rocks back against the touch, moving more on the instinct of want than out of any coherent thought, and the movement presses him up against the slick friction of Shizuo’s free hand reaching out to press against his entrance. Izaya groans without meaning to, offering up the heat in his chest into a drag of sound in his throat, and Shizuo’s hand pushes to steady him as fingers drag wet over the tension of hot-sensitive skin.

“Relax,” Shizuo says, purring over the request as his hand pushes at Izaya’s thigh to give it the form of an order, and his thumb drags over Izaya’s body to press slippery wet against the other. Izaya falls forward to the bed, letting the tension in his legs and shoulders give way to the urging of Shizuo’s words and touch at once, and Shizuo’s fingers slide down to take the place of the casual press of his thumb instead. Izaya can imagine Shizuo kneeling between his spread-open knees, his gaze cast down to watch the work of his hands with proprietary appreciation; and then there’s pressure against him, the urging of a finger coated to slippery wet, and Izaya huffs a breath at the sheets and lets Shizuo take him.

Shizuo is certain in his motion. Izaya knew this before this moment, he’s had countless experiences to grant the truth to that fact; but it’s different with his vision absent, without the distraction of watching the way Shizuo’s gaze lingers on him or letting his own focus track the flex of casual strength in the other’s shoulder or arm or wrist. Familiarity is written in every part of his action, from the unhesitating force he applies as his touch demands entrance farther into Izaya’s body to the angle of his hand as he strokes up and in, as he finds a rhythm to his motion that urges Izaya wider and hotter with every forward push. It makes Izaya feel like an instrument, as if Shizuo is an expert musician coaxing precisely the response he wants to obtain from the shape of the body laid out before him for his use, and that thought all on its own is enough to tighten at his thighs and clench him hard with want against Shizuo’s touch working into him. Shizuo’s palm against his thigh tenses, the pressure increasing to bear Izaya down flush against the bed, and when he draws his touch back it’s to slide another finger alongside the second to strain against the give of Izaya’s body around him. Izaya groans against the sheets, the sound at his lips something between strain and heat at once, and when Shizuo pushes in against him he lets himself go slack and trusts the rising tide of want in his body to the urging of Shizuo’s fingers.

It’s impossible to keep track of time. Everything already feels oddly slow, as if seconds are pulling wide with the loss of vision to ground them in place; with nothing but black to answer his gaze Izaya can’t tell if it’s his own mind that is drawing everything languid-slow or if it really is Shizuo’s actions that are lingering appreciation in each forward stroke, in each dragging pull. His focus narrows against the friction, his attention centering at the tips of Shizuo’s fingers as they work up and into him, until he’s feeling the sensation of the other’s movement spilling up the whole of his spine, until his entirely body is trembling with the heat of Shizuo’s touch sliding over him. He feels dizzy, disconnected, like he’s losing track of the details of his own position, like he’s forgotten how his body is aligned on the sheets except for the weight of Shizuo’s hand at his leg and the occasional shift of his balance as Shizuo moves, and then Shizuo draws back and out of him and Izaya’s throat tightens involuntarily on a whimper at the loss that aches within his body.

“Shizu-chan,” he protests, turning his face down against the sheets as his fingers clench to fists against the blankets and his shoulders strain with the desire to push back, to rock up, to grind against the radiant heat of the form he can feel just behind him even if he hasn’t yet felt any part of Shizuo’s body beyond the other’s hands. “Stop teasing me and hurry _up_.”

Shizuo’s laugh rumbles into resonance with the tension of his hand flexing at Izaya’s thigh. “Is that any way to ask nicely?”

“ _Please_ ,” Izaya says, although the word does nothing at all to ease the strain in his throat that turns the demand into a plea. He presses an elbow against the bed beneath him to steady himself and twists to reach out behind him in a fumbling attempt to find the fall of a shirt or the tangle of hair or the flush of bare skin. “Shizuo, where are--” and the bed shifts, Izaya’s fingers brush skin, and Izaya’s words fail on his lips as the solid heat of Shizuo’s cock presses against him.

“I’m here,” Shizuo says, his voice so low that Izaya can hear the flush of want on it; and his fingers tighten, his hips come forward, and Izaya moans outright at the feel of Shizuo’s cockhead dipping forward to strain his body open around it. His fingers clutch at the first thing he can lay hand to -- Shizuo’s forearm, as it turns out -- but Shizuo doesn’t hesitate in his movement even with Izaya’s grip digging in at his arm. He lifts his hand away, slick fingers close around the angle of Izaya’s hip to match the shift of his other hand pushing up and over Izaya’s leg to lock him in the other’s grip, and when he pulls Izaya slides back over the bed, his body urged open over the strain of Shizuo’s cock by the flex of the other’s arms instead of the forward thrust of his hips. Izaya’s voice breaks in his throat, giving way around a wail of heat before he can think to hold it back, and behind him there’s a huff of sound as Shizuo gusts an exhale as their bodies come together.

“Izaya,” he says, his voice as startling as a touch against the back of Izaya’s neck, and he’s pressing them forward to pin Izaya down against the bed as his hand at the other’s hip slides forward to cradle the soft of his stomach and bear down to hold Izaya steady against the thrust of Shizuo’s hips as he seats himself fully within the other’s body. Izaya reaches up over his shoulder with his free hand, giving up his support at the mattress and his hold on the sheets to struggle for Shizuo instead, and he gets a fistful of hair for his trouble as Shizuo ducks in over him to gust an exhale over the line of Izaya’s shoulders.There’s the heat of bare skin everywhere, pressing to Izaya’s back and against the rise of his ass and all against the inside of his thighs, as Shizuo braces himself over the bed to set a hand over Izaya’s shoulder and steady them into place, and Izaya can feel the distinctions between his senses starting to haze as the heat of Shizuo over and around and inside him rises to overwhelm the whole of his awareness. There’s a huff at the back of his neck, a gasp of air as Shizuo steadies himself, and then movement, a flex of muscle and a pull of friction, and Izaya shuts his eyes behind the dark of the blindfold and lets himself be taken.

The sensation takes over everything. Even with his eyes open Izaya struggles to hold to himself when Shizuo is pressing into him, when Shizuo’s presence is bearing him down to the sheets of their bed and urging his body to the straining tension of rising pleasure; without that fixed point to ground himself Izaya’s grasp on himself, on the present, on existence itself melts away with the first rocking thrust of Shizuo’s cock moving into him. There’s heat at the back of his neck, the damp warmth of Shizuo’s breathing dragging down through the depths of his chest to ruffle Izaya’s hair with every exhale, with every gasping inhale; the hand at his stomach is pressing hard against the weight of his body to hold him steady. Izaya can taste salt when he breathes in against the sheets pressing against his face, the tang of sweat in the air between their bodies clinging to his tongue along with the sharp artificiality of the lube Shizuo worked into him. And there’s the sound, the rustle of the sheets and the creak of the mattress and the slick sound of wet skin pulling over itself, until Izaya thinks he could track the motion of Shizuo’s cock moving into him just from the sound of their bodies coming together and pulling away. There’s pressure within him, heavy and solid and unflinching; Shizuo’s motion is minimal compared to the strain of his cock, a rocking force like he’s settling himself deeper inside Izaya rather than truly stroking down into him, until Izaya’s whole focus is clinging close to that action, that friction straining at the bounds of his existence while Shizuo’s breath spills over the back of his neck, while Shizuo’s palm urges him back to press flush to the shift of muscle in the other’s chest. Izaya hears himself panting against the sheets, feels the tremor in his shoulders like it’s a very long way away, like he’s falling distant from his own sensation even as it draws tighter, and then Shizuo gasps an inhale and lets his hand drop from Izaya’s stomach to brush against the length of his straining cock instead. Izaya’s fingers clench hard at Shizuo’s arm, his head lifts to let his gasp sound unmuffled by the weight of the sheets, and Shizuo closes his grip hard around Izaya’s length and strokes up with immediate, unflinching speed.

Izaya hears the sound he makes before he identifies the shape of it on his tongue: a groan, he thinks, or a gasp, something strained against the back of his throat into unintelligible heat. His back arches, his shoulders coming up to dig in hard against the burden of Shizuo pressing him down to the sheets as his fingers drag at Shizuo’s hair as if to urge him to greater force, and against his shoulders Shizuo sighs an exhale and ducks his head down towards Izaya’s skin.

“Izaya,” he purrs, and his lips press to a kiss at the top of Izaya’s spine. Izaya whimpers, his hand at Shizuo’s arm slips down to the flex of the other’s wrist; Shizuo’s movement doesn’t hesitate even with the shift in motion. “You look so good.” Another kiss, against the side of Izaya’s neck, now, under the ticklish fall of his hair; Izaya’s head cants to the side, urged to motion by the force of Shizuo pressing closer. “Izaya.” Izaya can feel that pour over the line of his collarbone to trickle heat down the midpoint of his chest; he shudders with the force of it, with the pulse of tension that rides him in answer to the urging of Shizuo’s hand and hips. Shizuo’s head turns, his hair catching against Izaya’s own falling loose over the blindfold covering his eyes, and there’s the heat of lips against Izaya’s shoulder, the warmth of wet against his skin as Shizuo touches his tongue to the salt-sweat clinging to the other’s body.

“Like this,” Shizuo says, murmuring the words so Izaya feels them as well as he hears them. “I want to watch you come.” Izaya’s skin shivers with heat, his cheeks flush with the self-conscious certainty of Shizuo’s gaze on him, of being seen while he’s still caught in the darkness of the blindfold over his eyes; and then Shizuo’s hips draw back by an inch, and snap forward to jolt pressure into him, and Izaya’s mouth comes open on heat he can’t even think of holding back. Shizuo’s grip pulls over him, his fingers working in hard over the head of the other’s cock, and the fragile construct of Izaya’s existence comes apart in one long pulsing spasm of heat. The world gives way, his awareness scatters, even his self fragments: he’s just sensation, just pleasure, the taste of a moan on his lips and the sound of orgasm ringing in his ears and the pressure of Shizuo on his tongue, at his nose, inside the deepest part of his body as he collapses around the force of it.

Shizuo strokes him through it, through the first eclipsing wave of pleasure and the disintegration of reality and the recollection of it, as the structure of _Izaya_ reforms like collecting puzzle pieces into a comprehensive whole. It’s only once Izaya has gasped a deep breath of relief over the sheets that Shizuo lets his hold on the other’s cock go, and the loss is immediately followed by the pressure of sticky fingers clutching at Izaya’s hip to lock him in place against the backwards pull of Shizuo drawing almost out of him before sliding back forward to sink himself far into the other’s body in a single long stroke. The force makes Izaya quiver against the sheets, flexes half-formed, involuntary spasms of sensation against his thighs and his fingertips and the part of his lips, and Shizuo has hardly taken a handful more of those endless strokes before his hand at Izaya’s hip seizes tight and Shizuo’s breathing catches. His hips jerk forward sharply, pull back with instinctive haste for another sudden burst of heat, and he’s groaning into pleasure as his cock pulses his release into Izaya beneath him.

They’re still for a minute after. Izaya feels drained, as if the easing of the tension in his body has left him strengthless and pliant to the demands of Shizuo’s need, and Shizuo is panting over him, his breathing coming with force enough that Izaya can hear it clearly even over the pleasure-haze ringing in his ears. It’s Shizuo who finally moves, in spite of Izaya’s unvoiced willingness to stay right where he is as long as possible; he rocks up onto his knees to draw away from the lingering hold of Izaya’s grip and brace himself against the mattress to pull back. Izaya turns his head down against the sheets and takes a deliberate breath that promptly turns into a groan in his throat at the pull of Shizuo’s cock sliding free of the strain of his body. He aches with the friction of it, he can feel the heat pressed deep inside him by the force of Shizuo’s movement, but Shizuo doesn’t wait for Izaya to linger in the half-pleasant hurt of loss. He’s leaning in instead, the mattress shifting under the force of his hand pressing to it, and then there’s a pull at the back of Izaya’s head as Shizuo’s fingers rumple the blindfold up and free of his eyes. Izaya blinks, anticipating the illumination of returning vision, and then the darkness slides away and he has to shut his eyes hard against the pain of sudden light against shadow-weighted eyes. Shizuo shifts over him, his weight tipping to the side as he falls over the sheets alongside Izaya, and there’s a touch against the other’s cheek as Shizuo’s fingers skim his jawline.

“Izaya?” Shizuo’s voice is very soft; it’s fallen into that gentle tone he always adopts right after sex, as if all the impressive strength in him has melted away to leave nothing but the affection that is more truly him than even the bones and sinews of his powerful body. His leg is angled up over Izaya’s knee as if to pin the other down, but there’s no restraint at all under the drag of his fingers, nothing but appreciative tenderness as he works the effect of the blindfold free of Izaya’s hair. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Izaya says into the darkness of his shut eyes. He shifts onto his side fractionally, not to pull away but just to free one hand so he can reach up and out to find his way to the line of Shizuo’s jaw and across to the other’s lips. “I’m just temporarily blinded by your beauty. I’m sure soon my eyes will accustom themselves once more to the appearance of the divine in my humble abode.”

Shizuo’s mouth curves on a laugh under Izaya’s fingers. “You’re definitely not alright,” he says, and pushes up to make a show of pressing his hand to the other’s forehead. “You must be feverish, you’re babbling nonsense.”

“You’re like the sun,” Izaya says, opening his eyes fractionally to squint at the familiar outline of Shizuo’s face. “A fever is only to be expected. This mortal form was not meant to be in the presence of such as yourself, much less to serve as an instrument of divine pleasure.”

“I’ll give you that,” Shizuo says. His hand pushes up into Izaya’s hair again but the weight of it is immediately replaced by the press of his forehead. His hair falls forward to dapple the light against Izaya’s face into bearable shadow; when Izaya blinks to clear his vision he can see the soft in Shizuo’s brown eyes as much as he can feel the shape of the other’s smile threatening his lips. “There’s definitely something transcendent about being with you.”

“Flattery, flattery,” Izaya purrs, and lets his hand at Shizuo’s lips draw up and back so he can drape his arm around the other’s shoulders. “Will you grant me your favor, Shizuo-sama?”

Shizuo laughs against Izaya’s mouth. “Whenever you want, Izaya” and then he’s leaning in closer, and Izaya is shutting his eyes again as he tips his head up to offer the give of his lips to the press of Shizuo’s mouth against his.

He doesn’t need to see Shizuo’s face to recognize the love in his eyes.


End file.
